Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/193

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Gentle remembrances and cherished hopes! His race was run, but its goal was the grave.— I looked upon another, wasted, pale, With eyes all heavy in the sleep of death; Yet she was lovely still,—the cold damps hung Upon a brow like marble, and her eyes, Though dim, had yet their beautiful blue tinge. Neglected as it was, her long fair hair Was like the plumage of the dove, and spread Its waving curls like gold upon her pillow. Her face was a sweet ruin. She had loved, Trusted, and been betrayed! In other days, Had but her cheek looked pale, how tenderly Fond hearts had watched it! They were far away,— She was a stranger in her loneliness, And sinking to the grave of that worst ill,